


reflect what you are, in case you don't know

by noodlefrog



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (again very very briefly), (and then he gives it back to Aziraphale to have another go), (briefly) - Freeform, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Bondage, Coming Untouched, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Don't copy to another site, Effortless sex, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Masturbation, Mostly Crowley just has romantic feelings, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Other, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Power Dynamics, Ruined Orgasms, Unmaking an Effort, and having a lot of fun with each other, body swapping, kinky and soft, of some sort lol, passing one single effort back and forth like the wine bottle at the bus stop, so does Crowley but it's in the background, they're just having a lot of fun with their corporations okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26041078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlefrog/pseuds/noodlefrog
Summary: Nothing could ever compare to this, because while it was hisbodyhe was watching, it wasn’thim.Yes, those were his own hands, and it was his own blood that painted those cheeks and chest in a heated blush. It was his stomach and his throat betraying the jagged breaths in his lungs… but it wasn’tCrowley.As much as watching this felt like watching himself in a mirror, he could see his husband in every gesture and hear him in every sigh and gasp. It didn’t matter what body he wore. He would know Aziraphale anywhere.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 132





	reflect what you are, in case you don't know

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Velvet Underground's top bebop hit, [_I'll Be Your Mirror_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dMeZCPbM6bA).  
> 
>
>>   
> I'll be your mirror  
> Reflect what you are, in case you don't know  
> I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset  
> The light on your door to show that you're home

Crowley’s wrists strained against his bonds, the padded leather gentle yet unyielding against his skin. He burned with the urge to reach, to touch—but of course, he couldn’t. That was against the rules they’d decided upon. His role was to sit here, to watch. To burn, too. To discover, to let things happen as they came. To take what he was given.

It was strange, of course, to watch his own body move like this. He had, of course, in the past. There were few things he hadn’t tried in six thousand years. There had been a brief flirtation with a certain kind of sleazy decadence back a half century ago, the kind that came with mirrors on the ceiling and satin sheets, leopard print underthings and a style of facial hair that said to people, _“I’m not a firefighter, but I’ve played one in films…”_ But there was a real difference between watching his own body move above him, serpentine and fevered, pretending the hands he felt were not his own, and… this.

Nothing could ever compare to this, because while it was his _body_ he was watching, it wasn’t _him._ Yes, those were his own hands, and it was his own blood that painted those cheeks and chest in a heated blush. It was his stomach and his throat betraying the jagged breaths in his lungs… but it wasn’t _Crowley._ As much as watching this felt like watching himself in a mirror, he could see his husband in every gesture and hear him in every sigh and gasp. It didn’t matter what body he wore. He would know Aziraphale anywhere.

“You’re doing— _ah_ —so good for me, my love,” Aziraphale sighed, sounding no less sweet for the way Crowley’s voice shaped his words.

“Me?” Crowley countered, resting his head against the plushness of his borrowed arm. The smile that stretched his lips felt so much sharper than any expression Aziraphale would naturally make. “It looks like you’re the only one doing any work right now, angel.”

Aziraphale preened, spread those spare, lanky legs wider. Dropped his hand to the red marble top of the desk behind him so he could lean back on it and _stretch,_ to present the full flushed expanse of heaving chest and red-splotched throat. What a show-off.

“Not _angel_ right now,” he said, twisting thin fingers around the head of Crowley’s cock. It was a move he liked to do when they were in their own bodies, one he knew made Crowley’s toes curl. If Aziraphale’s gasp and the shine of precome beading at the tip of his erection were any indication, Crowley guessed it must feel good like this, too.

“I don’t believe that,” Crowley said, the gentle rumble of his husband’s voice reverberating low in his throat. “You’re always an angel.”

“An angel on the inside, maybe.”

“Like to have an angel inside me,” he quipped.

Aziraphale’s hips bucked, precome smearing under his thumb as he thrust into his fist. “Later, dearheart,” the angel said, the ghost of a laugh hidden in his breathless voice. “Later, I promise.”

Those slit-pupiled eyes were yellow all the way through, and they were watching Crowley with hungry intent. Aziraphale never bothered trying to conceal them when they switched, hadn’t ever since that first perilous time he’d worn that body down into Hell. Crowley had asked him about it later, and the angel had told him, _“They’re your eyes, Crowley. Why would I ever want to hide them?”_ That had been years ago, and he hadn’t worn his sunglasses inside their home since.

It still felt weird, sometimes, to look into those eyes and see love looking back at him. It would probably take years more to adjust to it fully, but he was making progress. It helped that the corners of them still crinkled, even when Aziraphale was borrowing Crowley’s face. It helped that the love he saw there looked exactly the same as it did when he saw it in those stormy eyes he’d loved since Eden.

“You are so gorgeous,” Crowley said, feeling soft and sappy.

“Have you h—heard the one about Narcissus and the pool?” Aziraphale shot back, the laugh slipping out now in earnest. “I have an illustrated copy if you’d like to— _fuck, fuck_ —like to see what happens when you… _mmmmm_ … fall in love with your own reflection.”

“Don’t think I’d like being a plant,” Crowley mused. “I reckon the rest of the greenhouse would try to find a way to take vengeance on me.”

“I wouldn’t put you out in the greenhouse,” Aziraphale said, bringing his other hand down to stroke his balls. Crowley noticed the way the other hand slowed its rhythm, squeezed tighter around the base on the downstroke. It shouldn’t be long now, if Aziraphale was trying to stall. His resolve was never weaker these days than when he was trying to please Crowley. “Pretty thing like you, I’d—oh, _ohhhh_ —I’d put you on my windowsill. Right—right next to where I read. I’d want to… to see you…”

“Now who’s being vain?” Crowley tilted his head as much as he could within the confines of his bonds, looking down at the soft swell of Aziraphale’s belly, the soft spread of his thighs where the armrests of his throne pushed into them. “Though you are correct. You _are_ a pretty thing. It’s a beautiful corporation… but you’re more beautiful than any box that could hold you.”

“Flatterer.”

“Nah, just observant.” He shifted in his seat, got more comfortable. “Besides, how many times do I get to be the coherent one? I’m taking this opportunity as payback, Aziraphale. Payback for all the times you said such _nice_ things while you were balls deep in me and I couldn’t do anything but take it…”

He didn’t state the obvious, which was that if he were currently sporting any sort of Effort at the moment, he would be incapable of doing anything more complex than just babbling and begging. The blank space between his—Aziraphale’s—legs was a boon in that way, keeping his desire burning low enough that he could remain in control of his mind and his tongue. He wanted, still, of course. He always did, and nothing as minor as a lack of genitalia could stop him from longing and yearning and coveting the angel across from him… but without an outlet, his lust was manageable. Diffused and directionless, at least for the moment. He planned to use this time as fully as he could.

Aziraphale dropped his hands to his thighs, squeezing the lean muscle there with bony fingers. “I knew…” he panted, “I knew I should have gagged you, too. You are a menace.”

“You still could. If you wanted… but you won’t. You want to hear it, don’t you?” Crowley waited until Aziraphale caught his breath, waited until he gave a short, rapid nod. “Good. Now, touch yourself again for me. I want you to hear it, too.”

The angel did as he was ordered, slicking his hand anew with a fresh miracle and began to stroke himself with steady, firm pressure. Crowley didn’t miss the way his head rolled back, the way he stared up at the ceiling… when he used to do that, it always meant that he was looking towards Heaven. That he was feeling guilty, that he was afraid he was being watched. Now, though, Crowley could tell he wasn’t looking _towards_ anything. Eyelids fluttering shut over luminous eyes, wet lips parted… he was looking _away,_ away from the sight of his husband as he tried to prolong this just a moment or two more.

“You know how much I’ve always liked to sleep,” he began. Nothing too harrowing to start with. Easing him into it, letting the sound of his voice wash over the angel while he touched himself. “Always liked it. Wonderful invention, sleep. Lets you turn off your brain for a few hours and not worry about a thing. And the _dreams._ I’ll admit, they aren’t always enjoyable. Nightmares. And those dreams where you’re giving a presentation to your bosses, except your bosses are suddenly Welephant the fire safety elephant and Oliver Cromwell, and you realize you didn’t manifest any trousers…”

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh, warm and comfortable. His eyes were still closed, an easy smile on his lips.

“Point is, I used to like sleep because it… it let me take a break. And sometimes—the best times, really—it let me dream of you.”

“Oh, Crowley…”

There was a time in his life that such honesty wouldn’t have come easily to him. Would have felt like it cost him something to say. Restrained like this, arms pinned above his head to the back of his throne, legs tied over the armrests, it was difficult not to feel vulnerable. To feel helpless, exposed... In the early days, that’s why he’d been drawn to this sort of a thing—the physical vulnerability made it easier to make himself vulnerable in other ways, too. To let himself say the kind of things he needed to. By now, he’d grown used to that kind of tender honesty. It was as easy to say the words now as it had been to fall in love in the first place. He still liked to be tied up now and again, though, and his angel liked to indulge him.

“That’s not why I like to sleep anymore, though, love,” Crowley murmured, letting himself sound as fond as he felt. “D’you want to hear what the best part of it is now?”

Aziraphale’s head lolled forward, mouth still open on a gasp. A frantic nod, yellow eyes wide and searching. His hand was working faster, fast enough to hear each thrust as he fucked into his fist, twisting around the tip on every other stroke. Crowley braced himself, knowing how close to the edge his husband was getting.

“The best part is waking up here,” he said, nodding in the direction of their bedroom. “In a bed I built, under those hideous tartan sheets you insisted we get. Warm. Safe. Happy. My face on a pillow that always smells like you…”

“Crowley… _oh!_ Crowley, I—”

“The best part,” Crowley continued, his voice soft but firm, “Is when I open my eyes and I see you there next to me. That’s better than any dream I’ve ever had.”

The rhythm of the angel’s fist stuttered, hips moving erratically. His feet were creeping up the side of the desk, toes curling and pressing into it for purchase as his pleasure mounted. “Crowley, I’m close, Crowley may I—”

“Come here, love,” he said, and Aziraphale flung himself off the top of the desk and towards the throne. “Come and give me what you’ve made for me.”

Aziraphale’s hands were on him first, warm and slick and trembling against the sides of his neck, and it was the sweetest relief to touch him after these long minutes that felt like hours. Then his lips were on Crowley’s, his tongue probing between them with a gentleness that belied his desperation…

And then energy, crackling and hot, was flowing between their lips like wine, filling every atom of Crowley’s body and all the spaces in between. All the floodgates opened at once, his desire and arousal burning bright and inescapable. It felt like being struck by lightning, every muscle clenching and pulsing at once, and he heard himself—his own voice—cry out in anguished ecstasy as his orgasm was wrenched out of him from nothing.

As he came down from his peak, wave after wave of pleasure rising in him and receding, he opened his eyes and caught sight of his husband’s head of curly white hair bowed low, his forehead resting on Crowley’s chest. His shoulders were still heaving, skin flushed from exertion without release… Crowley wanted to pet him, wanted to brush back that hair and kiss his forehead and offer some comfort… but no. Not yet. Not until this part of their game was over. His role was to wait, not to touch. That was Aziraphale’s role in all of this, to touch himself, to build the most exquisite pleasure he could and deliver it to his lover just at its zenith. To ruin his own orgasms, one after another, as gifts for his demon.

“Perfect, love,” Crowley said, “The best one yet.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, those stormy eyes bright and needy. A frustrated whine choked off as he swallowed around it, his strong fingers clenching the back of Crowley’s neck. “I was so close that time, I almost—almost didn’t…”

“But you did. You did it exactly right, angel. Color?”

“Green,” Aziraphale said, voice firm even as his lip wavered. “Very green.”

Crowley stretched, luxuriating in his afterglow. The straps holding his knees and wrists to the throne were looser now, sized to fit Aziraphale’s plush thighs and arms, and he let himself sag into the slack. “Mmmm. Green for me, too. And you know… all you have to do is say the word, and I’ll be out of here in a heartbeat. I promise, I’ll fuck you as long as you like, fuck you ‘til you can’t think…”

“Later, my love. I want to—I want to do this again…” Aziraphale let out a long, shuddering breath, then straightened his shoulders. He was regaining his composure, and Crowley couldn’t let that happen for long.

“Of course.” He strained his neck to press a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head. “Now, how about we get back to work, love?”

Aziraphale nodded against him, then rose to his feet. His hands twitched towards his Effortless pelvis on instinct. “Any requests?”

It had taken years, too, for him to get to this point. For him to be able to put Aziraphale’s pleasure on the back burner and take what he was given, to take and take and take until he was full. For so long, he’d felt like he wasn’t worthy of that kind of devotion, like he had to prove he was an equal partner by ignoring his own desires and wants in favor of lavishing attention on his lover. Years of careful conditioning had allowed him to work up to this point, to be able to accept Aziraphale’s devotion without flinching—it helped, he knew, once he understood that Aziraphale liked to give as much as he liked to receive, liked denying himself when he could look forward to glutting himself on sensation later. Once he understood that devotion didn’t have to just go one way, that he could receive now and give later, and do it all again tomorrow. There was no rush anymore, and after so long of having to live under the specter of an expiration date on the world, they had both come to trust the fact that they could now take as much time as they needed.

Crowley rolled his head back, considering the possibilities. “D’you mind cleaning us up?” Aziraphale waved a hand and the spend coating Crowley’s stomach vanished. The prickle of his miracle against his skin gave him an idea and he shifted his Effort around, trading his cock for a wet, needy cunt. Stretched open by the spread of his bound legs, achingly empty… “Think I’d like to feel where your fingers have been.”

His husband wet his lips as he watched the transformation, fingers flexing. “I might make you regret that,” Aziraphale said, his voice hoarse. “You know how long I can last that way. I’ll leave you aching with it.”

“Is that a promise?” Crowley asked.

“For you, my love?” Aziraphale said, and kissed him. The body swap was less heart-pounding in reverse, the lingering buzz of Crowley’s orgasm fading to a quiet hum as a calm overtook him. As he surfaced over his own desire. “Anything you like. I want to give you everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> There was a discord conversation where [charlottemadison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison) brought up the idea of having to hide inconvenient erections during a body swap and the question of who actually owns said boner ~~if~~ when it persists after the swap back.  
> She then said, _"maybe later they experiment and learn that the boner DOES actually travel with the corporation or something idek"_ and, well. That was only seven hours ago, so it's safe to say that she activated my fucking charcoal with that prompt.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> Feel free to chat with me in the comments or on my [Tumblr](https://noodlefrog-omens.tumblr.com), a place where I theoretically post about my writing.
> 
> This is the shortest adult-oriented fic I've managed to write, go me for keeping that word count down. If you like your porn sadder and with more words, consider the massive [ongoing WIP](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578430) I took a break from to write this smutty little oneshot. The last mmmmm... 50k-ish of that is almost entirely angsty smut.


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